


Colour My Life With the Chaos of Trouble

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras needs to paint signs for an upcoming protest; Grantaire has an art studio..... cue paint fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour My Life With the Chaos of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> After reading so many fics in which Grantaire is an art student, I felt like this had to happen at some point. My apologies if they're wildly OOC, it's my first work for this fandom. Also, established relationship just because.  
> Very much inspired by this (NSFW) clip from J'ai tué ma mère: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWo6U1KQAGU

“Really, Enjy?” Grantaire said, raising his eyebrows as he took in the sight of Enjolras’s neat sweater and jeans. His voice was slightly muffled around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, held there since he had a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. “I told you to wear something _old_. You’re going to get that covered in paint.”

Frowning, Enjolras moved further into Grantaire’s sorry excuse for an art studio and set his bag down in the corner. “I’m not a child, Grantaire. I think I‘ll be alright,” he said humourlessly, but his eyes lingered over the paint splatters up the walls and covering the floor all the same. “And stop calling me Enjy.”

According to Courfeyrac, Joly had almost fainted when he‘d ventured inside the studio last month. He’d taken one look at the mould in the corner of the ceiling and had started wailing hysterically about spores, puffing at his inhaler all the while. Enjolras didn’t particularly want to be here himself, but he had a stack of protest signs to make, and Grantaire had offered the use of his painting room, after all.

So far, Enjolras had managed to avoid coming in direct contact with the squalor of Grantaire’s tiny little flat, insisting instead that the two of them hang out at Enjolras’s instead. Grantaire was always more than happy to comply, and now that Enjolras could see why, he made a mental note to send a strongly-worded letter of complaint to the housing office of the university.

“Besides, these clothes _are_ old,” Enjolras said, plucking at the red material of his jumper for emphasis as he spoke.

Grantaire merely snorted in reply, turning back to his canvas, which was covered in what would probably be best described as a ‘right bloody mess’. Although Grantaire was astonishingly good at traditional art (Enjolras had a drawer full of his sketches, and still more pinned to the notice board in his room to prove it) he was indulging his Pollock-obsession for his latest abstract assignment.

After pausing to glare at Grantaire a moment longer, Enjolras set to choosing a tin of paint and retrieving the cardboard he’d brought over the previous day. Since the only piece of furniture in the room was a rickety table covered in industrial quantities of paint, jars of brushes, scrunched up bits of paper and empty whisky bottles, Enjolras looked appraisingly at the floor and selected a moderately clean patch to sit on.

Before he sat down, he hesitated, watching Grantaire make an erratic motion towards his canvas, closer to a tennis serve than a brushstroke. A glob of paint flew from Grantaire’s brush and soared across the room, where it ended up as a brilliant flash of scarlet on the windowpane.

Although Enjolras could trust himself to paint responsibly, he couldn’t say the same for Grantaire. As he pulled his sweater off over his head, he ignored Grantaire’s stifled cackling behind him.

“There’s a few old things over there,” Grantaire said graciously, bright yellow paint dripping from his paintbrush as he gestured to Enjolras had taken to be a pile of rags in one corner. “If you can bear to wear my old cast-offs, that is.”

“Well you’ve no problem with stealing mine,” Enjolras observed, eyeing the t-shirt Grantaire wore under his painting clothes, recognising it as one of his own. He’d never admit it, but Enjolras felt a certain rush of affection every time he saw Grantaire wearing his clothes. Whether he was sat sketching in Enjolras’s underwear on the morning after a date, or appeared at Le Musain wearing one of his old jumpers, it felt overwhelmingly domestic.

But still, wearing Grantaire’s paint-stained rags was a different issue altogether. Swallowing his pride, Enjolras gingerly chose the least dirty shirt from the pile and shrugged it on. Reluctant to get paint on his white t-shirt, he buttoned the smock almost up to his throat and looked down at himself grimly. Grantaire was having the time of his life with this, the bastard, his barely suppressed sniggers dissolving into open laughter as he caught sight of Enjolras’s martyred expression.

“O how the mighty have fallen!” Grantaire managed to choke out, miming wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

“Shut up,” Enjolras said testily, and sat down to start painting his signs, dipping the paintbrush in a tin of bright crimson paint. It took a few minutes for Grantaire’s irritating scoffing to subside, so Enjolras thought instead about the march this weekend, thinking about any last preparations which needed to be made.

They painted quietly for a while, the only sound being Grantaire’s tuneless humming as he worked on his canvas. Grantaire never spoke much while he worked on his art; he was completely absorbed in the task, one of the two things that deserved his full attention (Enjolras was the second). Every now and again, he heard Grantaire taking a swig of whatever he was drinking today, or the click of a lighter as he lit another cigarette. He’d cut down on both habits considerably when the two of them got together, but still indulged his vices far too often for Enjolras’s liking.

Enjolras actually started feeling pretty relaxed after about half an hour of painting - or at least, as close to relaxed as it was possible for him to be in a room that smelled like a seedy pub and dizzying paint fumes. He stopped to admire the crisp red letters of _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_ _…_ until he felt something cold and wet splat across his cheek.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras shouted, hastily reaching up to wipe his face. He glared furiously at him when his fingers came away blue.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Grantaire managed to say between laughs, almost doubled over with mirth, again at Enjolras’s expense. He was splattered with paint himself, with rainbow streaks of colour adorning his arms where he’d rolled his sleeves up, his faded old jeans and bare feet, even in his the curly mop of his hair.

Eyeing the still open paint tin on the floor beside him, Enjolras took up his own paintbrush. He didn’t even think twice before flinging a load of red paint in Grantaire’s direction, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied grin as it found its mark.

Grantaire looked surprised for all of two seconds, before he wiped his face on his forearm and retrieved his brush from where he’d dropped it on the floor. He tossed his palette onto the table, using it as a makeshift ashtray for the last of his cigarette. His face was twisted into a sly expression Enjolras knew well, and he cursed himself for what he’d started.

“Grantaire, no,” Enjolras said, holding his free hand up in warning. “Don’t you even think about it…” Really, Enjolras thought as another load of paint landed in a green streak on his front, that probably wasn’t the wisest thing to say.

Looking up from his chest back at Grantaire, who was loading up his brush with bright purple paint this time, Enjolras decided there was only one course of action.

Jumping to his feet, Enjolras grabbed the tin of paint and his brush and dashed for cover behind the table, sending another red splatter over at Grantaire. The other man practically squealed in delight, returning a ridiculous amount of paint that Enjolras managed to dodge.

It was difficult to say who had the advantage: the strategic Enjolras, who sent well-aimed red missiles from behind his makeshift barricade, or Grantaire, who just concentrated on flinging as much paint around as possible, whether it hit the target or not.

Before long, the pair of them were breathless with laughter. As much as he liked the rest of their friends, there was no one who could make Enjolras’s serious persona slip as effectively as Grantaire, not even Courfeyrac. It was one of the many things Enjolras loved about Grantaire. He could come back from a particularly heavy class, fuming about whatever issue had angered him that day, and Grantaire would make him smile.

Of course, the two of them still argued a lot. Grantaire was still the cynic, Enjolras still the idealist, after all. But that passion was easily converted into a lot of really great sex. A heated argument would end with Enjolras taking Grantaire against the wall, or bent over the desk, biting his throat and making them both curse with pleasure.

Grantaire tackled Enjolras around the middle, and the pair of them toppled to the floor in an ungainly heap. Spread-eagled on the floor, with Grantaire straddling his waist, Enjolras squirmed as fingers saturated with paint were smeared across his cheekbones. Pausing to admire his handiwork, Grantaire had a silly smile on his face, and the two of them gazed at each other for a moment, giggles fading into silence.

As Grantaire leant down, Enjolras surged forward to meet him in the middle, their mouths coming together in a heated frenzy, teeth scraping against lips and tongues twining together. He tasted like cigarettes and alcohol, but underneath that, there was the certain taste of _Grantaire_ that Enjolras had come to crave.

Enjolras let out a tiny groan from the back of his throat, tugging at Grantaire’s shirt as they kissed. Sitting back on his heels, Grantaire pulled his painting shirt and t-shirt off over his head in one fluid motion. How many times had he seen Grantaire’s bare skin? Yet every time it was exposed, Enjolras felt the same temptation as the very first time, the same open admiration bright in his eyes. Whether it was the sliver of a wrist when Grantaire’s sleeve rode up, the long curve of his neck when he stretched, a quick glimpse of his lower back when he leant forward…

“Grantaire!” Enjolras found himself gasping as Grantaire ground down against him, knees bracketing Enjolras’s hips tightly.

Encouraged, Grantaire bent down to ravish Enjolras some more, before he shifted to unbutton Enjolras’s messy borrowed shirt. When he pulled off the t-shirt under it, Enjolras almost cried out again, as Grantaire drew his hands across the bare skin with enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

Enjolras always surprised himself with the sheer force of his lust, barely recalling the years he’d spent insisting there were more important things than sex, dedicating his every waking minute to fighting for every worthy cause under the sun. It turned out that he could do both. In fact, having Grantaire just increased his devotion to making the world a better place, now that he had someone to share it with.

His head dropped back to the floor gracelessly as Grantaire sucked dark bruises in a trail down the skin of his throat and chest, which was already scattered with fading marks from previous encounters. Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s hair again, pushing his head further down by instinct. He felt a hand slipping his shoes off, undoing his jeans, working them down his legs, pulling out his cock.

Enjolras moaned in earnest at the first touch of Grantaire’s mouth on his cock, involuntarily bucking his hips upwards. With two years of practice behind him, Grantaire knew exactly what Enjolras liked, knew exactly how to make him lose it within short minutes. Each suck and twirl of the tongue was rapidly bringing his pleasure to a peak, but he pulled Grantaire off him, practically ripping the other man’s jeans and underwear off.

“P-please tell me you have stuff…” Grantaire breathed as Enjolras set to making a matching set of lovebites on Grantaire’s skin, mouthing along his collarbones.

Tearing himself away from Grantaire was almost painful, but Enjolras hummed in assent and made the trip to his bag in the corner and back in record time, returning with a small tube. He’d taken to always carrying supplies around with him when he was with Grantaire, after the mortifying time when he’d had to ask Courfeyrac to borrow some the first time Grantaire stayed over.

Pouring lube over his fingers, Enjolras reached down to prepare Grantaire as quickly as possible. Soon, the other man was writhing beneath him, his face pressed into the crook of Enjolras’s neck, their cocks brushing together as they moved. Then he was finally withdrawing his fingers, and pressing into Grantaire with a long exhale.

There were times when Enjolras wanted to drag things out as long as possible, holding back until they were both half-mad with need, whining and begging each other for release, but this was not one of them. Instead he picked up an unforgiving rhythm, thrusting as hard and deep as he could, Grantaire’s hips canting up to meet his own in erratic little motions. Usually, Grantaire was extremely talkative when Enjolras fucked him, keeping up a steady stream of pleas and obscenities. Today, though, he’d lost all coherency, wordless cries being dragged from his throat, interspersed with the occasional _Enjolras_.

Enjolras’s breaths became shallower and shallower, dropping his mouth to the edge of Grantaire’s jaw line, kissing along it and digging his teeth into the spot that always made Grantaire shout. He felt Grantaire’s cock between them, rubbing against Enjolras’s stomach with every movement. Blunt, bitten fingernails were raking down his back, and over the curve of his ass, pulling him in closer.

“God, En _jol_ ras, I’m-”

Grantaire came between them with Enjolras’s name on his lips; Enjolras was quick to follow, all but collapsing on top of his lover as his arms trembled from holding himself up, his hips stuttering and finally stilling.

It took a few long moments for him to come down from his high and back to himself. He opened his eyes, not remembering when they’d fallen closed, feeling Grantaire’s fingers twisting idly through the gold curls of his hair. With some effort, he rolled to the side, taking his weight off Grantaire, who looked completely wrecked on the floor next to him.

Grantaire turned his head to look at Enjolras, and began laughing hysterically.

“What?” Enjolras asked. He’d lost count of how many times Grantaire had laughed at him today, though his own lips were curving into a smile too.

“You’re _covered_ in paint,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras looked down at himself, at the multicoloured handprints on his chest and arms, then back at Grantaire, who was sporting various coloured splatters too.

Though Enjolras’s back was aching from lying on the hard floorboards, and his stomach was aching from mirth, he grasped Grantaire’s hand and they laughed themselves hoarse, naked on the studio floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I had no idea how to end that, as you can probably tell.  
> Also I've never written anything remotely smutty before, so I hope it's not too awkward??  
> Thanks so much for reading. :)
> 
> /Title is from The Boy With the Arab Strap by Belle & Sebastian, but you probably knew that, it's a pretty popular song ^.^


End file.
